


Half-Read Books

by septicwheelbarrow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Not-quite-death, lavender hue, maybe reincarnation, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:19:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septicwheelbarrow/pseuds/septicwheelbarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England dies. America gets over him in bits and pieces -- until one day he finds he didn't have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-Read Books

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes by Richard Siken because that man is brilliant and deserves more love.

Bombs are large things, nowadays. One bomb sweeps London and most of South-East England clear off the map. Another flattens Scotland. Then, the bio-weapons. Within a week the United Kingdom is declared inhabitable. France gets a bit of it and he is bedridden for weeks, keeps vomiting onto his sheets.

France is lucky. England is not as so.

_names of poisons, names of handguns --_

 

 

 

Belarus holds a knife to America's throat. Her eyes glint like half-slit moons, glint with - America can see it, fucking hopes for it - tears. "How dare you!" she screams. "How dare you - to Russia - to our brother -"

America grabs her wrist but does not pull it away. "He did it _first_ ," he growls. "He did it worse," and Belarus falters. America squeezes his grip until he hears Belarus hiss.

Lithuania stands beside them. "Nat," he says. He is soft, strong. "Nat."

Still America does not let go, not until Belarus' knife clatters uselessly to the ground. Her wrist, America supposes, is cracked. She wrenches her arm away. The hatred in her eyes is very much what he feels; kind of comforting, that. Difference is, he just doesn't have anyone to direct it to, anymore. Took care of that, didn't he.

Belarus turns and walks away. Lithuania holds America's gaze for a brief second - hate, pity, consolation, understanding? - before he too, turns and walks away.

Lithuania is soft. Strong.

 

 

 

England is small and a couple of bombs is enough.

Russia is larger, but America has more than a couple of bombs.

 

 

 

_names of places we’ve been together --_

 

 

_"_ England!" America shouts. His hands reach out and halt themselves mid-air, trembling. England manages a fond smile - he must have wanted to shake England, that one. Always so hands-on, always so feisty. Will be the death of him yet. 

"England," America says, and hearing him sound so shattered, so heartbroken, breaks _Arthur's_ heart. "This is my fa-"

"Do not," England starts. He stops and coughs up blood and almost regrets speaking when America blanches. "Do _not_ ," he begins again, gentler this time. "Keep calm, Alfred. If nothing else you can carry on."

"'Keep calm and carry on'?" Alfred echoes, incredulous. "T-that's what you're fucking saying, now? Fuck! Arthur, I -"

"Oh, hush," Arthur says, though it comes out as a wheezing breath. "Not the end of Great Britain yet. The land will recover. It'll be just a matter of time."

"Years!" Alfred cries. "Maybe hundreds of years! And maybe it wouldn't even be you - God, England - what if you don't -"

"I've lived longer yet," Englands slurs. It's becoming very, very painful to speak. "My dear," and just where did that endearment come from, seriously, "you'll live through."

"England," America says, "Arthur." Panic cracks his voice, makes it sound as if he's swallowed glass. He might even be crying; Arthur's vision is too blurred to see. He does sound as if he's in tears, though, and it's strange how Arthur's always wanted this kind of attention from him, always wanted some confirmation that his presence means something to Alfred, and now that he has it --

Fucking _cruel_ , England decides. Like his heart's being repeatedly trodden on. Like the cold empty land where London should be. Like death. Like loss.

"Stay with me, Arthur," Alfred says, just short of a plea, "Don't go. _Fucking_ stay."

_It's not like I want to_ fucking _go_ , Arthur tries to say, but he can't even move his lips.

Alfred clings to his hand like a lifeline. Cruel. "Arthur," Alfred whispers, and he sounds like he's pleading, now, and Arthur doesn't know he can even whisper, God, there are still so many things they don't know about each other- "I've never told you-"

_Ah,_ Arthur thinks, _regret._ He didn't get to hear the rest of the sentence.

 

 

 

_names of people we’d be together --_

 

 

 

There's no physical body. Arthur disappears - passes on, _dies_ \- like his country, disintegrating into a cloud of dust. They planted roses in front of Arthur's grave just because it's his national flower. Wasn't roses supposed to be happy? A happy flower. Hell, Alfred doesn't even fucking know if Arthur likes roses.

The ceremony the nations hold is a small one: just the nations only, just for Arthur and not Britain - because everyone in the world remembers Britain, gives her commemorations and gives her tears, the United Kingdom who will always be the scar on a map, the United Kingdom where the sun never sets, but no one remembers _Arthur._

Arthur with guns and gunfire. Arthur kneeling in the rain with tears on his face. Arthur the pirate, the empire, the father and brother. Arthur the gentleman. Arthur the friend. Arthur and his rock-hard scones, Arthur and his fairies and his magic and his _stupid_ teacup, Arthur who plays a mean rock guitar, Arthur with sunlight dancing in his hair and a smile like treasure on his face.

Arthur who died with blood in the space underneath his fingernails. Arthur.

Sometimes it's like Alfred's the only one who remembers. It's like only Alfred remembers who Arthur is all the time, plays and replays it in his mind, and sometimes he would laugh to the memory of a funny face Arthur has made, or a blush, or the wimpy way he would deal with the Fourth of July, and he would catch himself laughing and stop. Stop. You can't laugh, Arthur is fucking gone.

 

 

 

His president declares war on Russia. America takes what he gets and goes the whole way. Tries to, anyway.

 

 

 

"Shit," Alfred curses, fumbling with the bouquet he brings. In the bluster he snaps two of the stems. He stares at the remnants with something like distant acceptance, warring with numb disgust. America's never been very good for anything but destroying what England likes 

After a while, Alfred speaks. "I didn't kill him," Alfred confesses to Arthur's grave. A grave, cool marble with carvings on them. Alfred swipes a hand through his hair. "I didn't even kill Russia, hell. But I wanted to. Fucking wanted to, Artie..."

He's never called Arthur that. It's so easy to imagine Arthur frowning. The curl of his brows, just so. Twist of his lips, just like that. But Alfred would never know how Arthur would react now.

"I guess this proves you just need to be around, you know? You... You're Arthur. You're like, the only one actually stuck-up enough to tell me what's right or wrong."

Once he starts he can't stop. Alfred talks and talks for hours. He cries, afterward.

Arthur is fucking gone.

 

 

 

_names of endurance, names of devotion --_

One day Alfred wakes up and he can't _quite_ remember how Arthur used to say ' _bugger'_ anymore, and he panics. He panics. His sheets are drenched in sweat - and he burns, which is _weird_ , because the cavity in his chest is cold, so cold, freezing stabbing chill, like someone had taken an icicle and drove it through his lungs.

Alfred tries to speak, tries to emulate Arthur speak - _bugger_ \- but he can't get it right, can't quite get the intonation and the pitch perfect, it's all fuzzy and now Alfred finds himself wondering, did Arthur really use to say _bugger?_ Did he say something else?

Alfred loses Arthur's voice from his mind, and his hands find themselves clutching at the sheets, bringing them to his chest as he slumps. Cries, maybe.

 

In the afternoon, Alfred calls up Canada. Over the phone, they both pretend not to cry.

 

 

 

It's been months. Feels like years. Maybe it's been years. France invites him out to drink, because _you need sunlight and fresh air, mon ami_ , and Alfred wants to rage at the absence of grief on his face. Wants to shout, wants to rail at France's composure, because Arthur is still dead and France should be unkempt, should have the same eyebags and haunted looks that Alfred used to have - which is ridiculous, stupid and ridiculous, because Arthur does not like unkempt, Arthur wears suits and tries to look his best no matter what --

"And he used to get so drunk," Canada is saying, more than a little drunk himself, "so fucking pissed, eh."

France is beside him nodding, hiccuping into his tankard of beer. "Ah, the things L'Angleterre would say - _hic_ \- the mouth of a sailor, very uncouth of him, non? And - and, his pathetic excuse of cooking! An insult!"

Canada nods furiously, and guffaws. And it's a strange thing, strange fucking thing, but Alfred finds himself nodding too, laughing. It starts soft, tentative, as if asking for permission - _can I laugh like this again?_ \- and then France topples out of his chair and it's full-blow laughter, big gulps of air from Alfred's stomach that hurts when he takes a breath, that hurts, that is painful and beautiful and so so real.

They talk about him like that; they mock him, they tease him mercilessly, and it feels - well, not alright, but more like a scab than a gushing wound. More like bittersweet.

Because memory fades, whether you want it to or not. Pain heals. And Arthur can be domineering, can be stubborn, but Arthur is not selfish, and Arthur's told him to _keep calm and carry on, soldier_ , and Alfred can live like this, he can -- and then in a thousand years maybe Arthur will return, maybe --

Alfred heals in bits and pieces. Arthur is right. He _is_ living through.

  
_\-- your name like a song I sing to myself._

_\--_

_there should be just one safe place_   
_in the world, I mean_   
_this world._

 

 

There's a wallet on the sidewalk. Arthur bends and picks it up, stretching his leather pants a bit too tight. It nips at his groin a bit, and Arthur clicks his tongue in annoyance. It's summer. Fashion, Arthur thinks, is shitty as all fuck.

"Hey," Arthur hears. He turns. The blond next to him jolts like he's thunderstruck. For a second he looks hunted, but Arthur thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him, because the next second the man's rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "Eng - uh, that's mine."

"Tough. Finders keepers, old man."

The man looks shocked - not quite scandalized, just startled. Pinched. Then, a strange pained expression takes over his face; an expression that's like bravado, that's like a man trying not to look as if he has his gut punched. Arthur quirks a brow. Man loves his wallet a wee bit too much. "So, punk, huh," the man mumbles, gesturing to his outfit. "Teenage years, yeah?"

Arthur's eyes flash. "Don't you dare patronize me."

"No, no! 'Course not, Eng-" A pause. "Uh. Look, can I get that back?"

Arthur lazily flicks the wallet open, sees an ID and frowns. The man's part of the big establishment; might be best not dick around. Then again, Arthur's shirt says _Fuck the Police._ Andthe word _Anarchy_ is practically stamped on his arse _._ "Sure you can, Mr. Jones," Arthur says and sees the man brighten. He smirks. "Whether you _may_ , though, that's a different matter entirely."

The Jones guy's eyes widen to almost-comical levels. Then it's like a shitstorm - Jones surging up, the ground _tips,_ Arthur hears a crack and realizes it's his head hitting the concrete. Holy shite, Arthur thinks, his head pounding. Man takes his love for his wallet to unhealthy levels.

They stay like that for a while, rough concrete digging into Arthur's back, Jones' knuckles white around his collar. Jones' blue eyes are electrifying - like the sky - appropriate, _somehow_ \- and Arthur's thoughts is one onslaught after another, a storm, which makes him wonder if that's what a concussion feels like. Arthur curses under his breath, _bollocks_ , a curse only period dramas use, a curse Arthur finds he likes.

When Jones speaks, his voice is - rather strangely - full of wonder. "-- it _back_ ," Jones says. It's a bit indistinct, though, with Arthur's head still reeling - Arthur thinks Jones might have said ' _he'_.

And - strange, really quite strange -- Arthur feels like he's heard that tone of voice before. It's familiar, like an old achy wound, like how when you twist an ankle it never quite heals from the dull, throbbing pain. Arthur - he's _Arthur_ \- remembers something from a long time - hundreds of years ago -- _muskets, redcoats, America and a tea party --_

"Alfred!" Arthur's train of thought is broken when he hears someone approach. It's a curly-haired guy, face the splitting image of Jones. When he sees Arthur's face, he double-takes. _What_ , Arthur thinks with a vindictive satisfaction, _never seen a lip piercing before?_

"Alfred..." the other Jones shuffles, still with that wide-eyed look but staring at his feet. Can't even look Arthur in the face, pathetic wanker.

"Matt," Alfred breathes, sounding inexplicably crushed. He releases Arthur's collar and straightens, his face colouring. "Um -" the man stops, mumbles as if battling with himself. Does that a lot, Arthur notices. "You," Alfred finally settles on, "Yeah, you can have that."

Arthur props himself by his elbows - his head's still spinning, bugger - and tosses the wallet right at Jones' face. "Fuck you," he spits, stands, leaves.

 

 

 

_You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back  
together._

 

 

 

Arthur is born in a country with a name like rain, smooth like a constant hum, indistinct, superfluous and unnoticed in excess. As soon as he opens his eyes he knows he is in the right place - the world - the wrong way.

"Look at those eyes," the nurse coos. "Like summer grass."

Ah, grass. He remembers the meadows carpeting his mountains and his valleys; he remembers running up and down slopy hillsides with dew collecting in the spaces between his toes, he remembers flashes of a boy, golden hair and golden smile, from within the meadows of a new found land -

His recollection stops and shatters upon itself. He wails, he cries. His mother rocks him in her arms - awkward, too soft, he is never on the receiving end of _soft_ \- but it soon ceases to matter. The nurse smiles down at him.

"Have you decided on a name?" she inquires.

"Arthur," his mother decides, her smile soft and comforting. It is right, little baby Arthur thinks. It is much too right. Something in him is missing. He cries.

 

 

 

From his room Arthur hears the sound of bells - _lun dun dun, lun dun_ \- lulling him to sleep. It cradles him like a long-lost friend. Even at seven, weak-boned, standing barely more than one metre tall, there is something about bells and clocks that calls out to him like a childhood friend - a large clock tower and twice a three-letter name, a bridge that is always collapsing in songs, a bard, a queen.

On his birthday father gives him a set of building blocks. Arthur builds a tower, as large as he can, as grand as he can. "Lun-dun," little Arthur utters, and his mother's eyes brighten with joy. It's his first word. " _Lun_ -dun," Arthur tries again. His vowels are more open - sounds like he's saying 'London', but what is London, anyway?

His mother teaches him a tune - _sol la sol fa mi fa sol_ \- which has no lyrics; Arthur's mind fills it in anyway, and he sings the tune with words, garbled still through his four-year-old speech. It begins thus: _London bridge is_ -

With his tiny unsteady fists he punches his block tower. "Down," he says. It hurts to hear, the way a scab hurts when you press hard enough. Fuzzy, indistinct like clouds.

 

 

 

Arthur spends a lot of his time with picture books of fairies and unicorns. His mother worries, sometimes, that he seems to have no friends. _That's ridi-ridiculous,_ Arthur at seven stutters - despite his weak limbs his vocabulary exceeds most of his peers by far - because no matter what everyone else says the books have always been his friends.

From time to time Arthur sees the air flicker in the corner of his eye, but whenever he turns there is nothing. Sometimes a quick breeze blows past. Other times his hair tangles itself in its sleep. Biscuits go missing, shoes get mended. Arthur recalls strange words like _Cobweb_ and _Mustardseed_ , and they mean something, felt like they should mean something.

Some select days - like on full moons or the 24th of June, he hears soft sobs from within tiny nooks and crannies, tiny sniffles in a language close enough to his: _no more, no more, he can dine with us no more_. He doesn't know why, but he feels like crying, too, those times.

It happens when he watches a documentary of the Romans, of all things. Arthur remembers that his name wasn't originally Arthur - something else, something, something, and he remembers he has a lot of names, maybe one for every letter of the alphabet or at least the first two. _Albion_ , he mouths. _Britannia._

In the corner of his eye, Mustardseed titters, her wings glimmering in sunlight.

 

 

Arthur grows up and grows stronger each passing year. He develops a penchant for tea, which neither of his parents drink. He also likes punk rock and burnt scones. No one really knows where that comes from.

 

 

 

_history is a little man in a brown suit  
trying to define a room he is outside of._

 

 

 

No one knows how a country is born, and something like faith is bubbling underneath the muscles of Alfred's chest, in the creaks of his lungs. Faith, which is supposed to be calming and serene, but now only serves to make him jittery. His chest trembles. Faith, old tired faith that's like a rude awakening, brilliant and blinding like a cone of light in the dark.

"Al," Canada beside him says, soft and searching, worried.

Alfred's gaze follows the punk kid as he recedes from sight. His wallet is fallen, forgotten on the ground. "A hundred years," Alfred mutters to himself. "Fuck." _Not the end of Great Britain yet,_ Arthur had said, and Alfred believed and then didn't believe him, but he feels his heart race now, just racing, pounding up a flurry of a storm.

There's a feeling in his chest like his heart is bursting. Alfred thinks of second chances. Alfred wants to scream, wants to rail against all the earth and skies - something like, _that's so not helping_ , which is immature and childish and a million other stupid things, _what happens now, what if he's just human_ or maybe something like, _I've been so good at getting over him already,_ or even _thank God oh God thank you God_ \- and he's warring with himself, he is _so confused --_

And then, and then, like a miracle, he breaks into a grin. He steps forward; he runs.

"Arthur--" he calls, because if anything else Alfred is built on hope.

 

 

 

_I know history. There are many names in history.  
Some of them are ours._

 


End file.
